


Don't Leave (When Winter Comes)

by stalksoftly



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Expats, M/M, Past Suicide Attempt, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-19 17:41:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9452711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stalksoftly/pseuds/stalksoftly
Summary: Josh and Tyler live in an unfamiliar city, far away and disconnected from the local culture and the homes they once knew. Tyler performs in grimy, alternative bars, and Josh idolizes him. They get involved, but Tyler seems hell-bent on destroying himself and everything in his path. Josh is really earnest and tries to hold on for the ride.





	1. Waves

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh, I've been itching to write *something* Joshler for a while and today, intense sleep deprivation turned into inspiration and here we are. I have a vague idea where I want this to go and it might not always be chronological. Oh yeah, and drug use and angst and yadda yadda because I tend to write what I know and unfortunately I know some stuff about that stuff. Let me know if you like it and I'll keep it up?
> 
> Also, I sort of can't believe I posted my first fic online (Livejournal, Ryden), literally a decade ago when I was 12. I just can't seem to get away from bandom. :')
> 
> Title from the song "Don't Leave (When Winter Comes)" by CunninLynguists (amazing hip-hop if you're into that).

In the distance stands a monument, the one gracing the postcards they each plastered on their bedroom walls as adolescents, an inspiration of wanderlust, one that initially struck them with awe and delight as they stood in the shadow of its splendor on hazy summer afternoons in their first months in the city. It was surreal, then. 

_I can't believe I'm standing here_ , Josh thought then, squinting and smiling.

 _It's real, it's really real_ , Tyler thought then, dumbstruck and gaping. 

Now, years later, draped in the grey of a long winter night, it taunts them with a different kind of uneasy surrealism. 

_What am I still doing here?_ Josh thinks now, his face turned down. He opens and closes a fist, absentmindedly testing the numbness of his reddened hands.

 _What are you still doing here?_ Tyler thinks now, his eyes turned towards Josh with an unreadable expression. 

\--

Josh watches the other man's slender fingers work with well-refined precision. He can tell that Tyler isn't new to crushing pills with his makeshift mortar and pedestal consisting of his Zippo and a dinner plate, just like how he isn't new to rolling cigarettes in one swift motion while talking, while walking, between the verses of his songs. He seems well-versed in all newest crazes in self-destruction to Josh, who feels like an apprentice now.

He firmly mashes the pills into a fine white powder, looking like innocently spilled sugar, until he begins to arrange them into even lines. They give Josh the idea that Tyler's love of linear harmony and precision are far beyond his geometric black tattoos. His life, however chaotic, seems to be in the hands of a tightly-wound perfectionist. 

Josh pulls himself upright on the stained and faded couch as Tyler passes him the dinner plate. 

"Eat up, darling, " he purrs, goosebumps creeping up the arm he reaches out, which Josh assumes is because of the anticipation of the buzz to come. 

Josh swallows tightly, still unsure of what he's gotten himself into. Sure, he's experimented, like every other university student in the historic little metropolis, sure, he needs half gram of Mary Jane each night to kill his buzzing nerves if he wants a restful night, but this? Taking white lines up his nose with a stranger (and that's exactly what Tyler is, no matter how many shows Josh visits, no matter how many times he feels the other's intimate lyrics creep into the deepest pits of his mind and shake loose anguish and understanding), who hadn't even been especially friendly when Josh had tried to approach him, just too charming and mysterious for Josh not to follow home, is a little bit out of his league. 

Tyler begins to roll a bill of bright, foreign money between his finger tips. He also passes this to Josh, who doesn't move. 

"Ladies first?" 

Josh shakes his head. "I'd like to watch you."

At that, Tyler lifts the corner of his mouth in a crooked smirk. 

"I've invited a virgin into my den," he hums, retreating the straw and the plate. Josh feels his cheeks turn pink. 

Tyler sets the plate between them on the couch and turns, twist his body over it, one hand pressing one nostril closed, the other aligning his straw. He eases the first line into his nose, switches sides, absorbs another, and again and again, until there are only two left. Finally, he unfurls himself, lips parted with a quiet moan, his body shuddering pleasantly as the chemicals work their magic through his limbs. 

His smile has softened now, the drug wearing down one of his many layers of protection, or so Josh hopes. This is why he's here, after all, to catch a glimpse of the man behind the unyieldingly distant artist. This is what he tells himself, told himself, when Tyler asked him to his place after a show- one of many he'd seen over the past few months.

"Left some for you," he murmurs, pupils now blown. He places a gentle hand on Josh's jaw. Josh nods. He's entangled in Tyler's marionette strings now, and he doesn't want to cut himself free. 

He takes the straw with shaking hands, and mirrors Tyler's actions from before. He doesn't moan though, instead pinches the bridge of his nose and whimpers, tears threatening to spill. It burns, but not how Tyler's hand burns when he lays it against Josh's jaw again. 

"Baby," he coos, and Josh doesn't know if it's mockery or endearment. He nuzzles into Tyler's hand, as the heat in his nose starts to fade, instead radiating through his limbs. He lays his hand over Tyler's, running his hands over chafed knuckles, worn from the cold, down to willowy wrists, lined with ridges, more evidence of Tyler's carefully self-destructive precision. The pad of his thumb can't get enough of them. 

Tyler doesn’t retreat now, though, just chuckles softly. 

"I think the tactile sensations are my favorite part of molly," he sighs, bringing up another hand to weave through Josh's fading curls. Fingers rake his scalp tenderly. "Mmm, so soft." He twists a ringlet between his fingertips.

The vice of Josh's anxiety seems to melt and finally allows him to communicate in more than squeaks and nods in Tyler's presence. "That feels so good," he says, voice low, his dinner plate pupils fixed on Tyler's. 

"I'm gonna make you feel so good," Tyler says, and Josh doesn't blush. Instead, he leans forward to catch Tyler's plump bottom lip between his teeth, gently pulling the flesh, then pulling away. This drug he's snorted, this awful, destructive thing his parents and teachers always cursed as a life-ending devil's brew, feels so warm and gentle, coaxing him out of his tightly wound mind and letting him do, for once, exactly what he feels. He can't hide a broad, crinkling smile as he watches Tyler with his mouth still agape, eyes half-lidded. 

"Again," Tyler breathes, the command soft in volume but firm with intention. 

Josh obeys pliantly, and pulls away again, feeling playful. He wants to tease Tyler, the way he's been teasing Josh, albeit with more subtlety, for weeks now. But Tyler doesn't allow it. He's pulling the strings, calling the shots, when he chases Josh's retreating mouth and brings their lips together. 

Josh feels his peak, the peak of his high, when Tyler brings them together like this. He moves his lips and Tyler moves his lips and his head swims so far he can't imagine ever finding shore again. No matter how cliché it sounds, how his friends would chide him for saying it, he feels one with Tyler now, unable to discern where Tyler's crashing waves begin (the nails more firmly raking through his hair now) and his own breathless body begins (the heel of his hand pressed against Tyler's jugular, each thrum reverberating through him, like a deeply primal bass drum). 

Josh parts his mouth for a breath and a beat, wanting to savor every last drop in the ocean of Tyler's gentle kissing, but Tyler takes this as an invitation to lick into his mouth, not that Josh startles, or protests, or does anything other than moan. He feels a soft click against he teeth and he knots his brows in confusion, but Tyler chuckles again, breathing the words "tongue piercing" into him. It makes sense, now, because he knew Tyler's voice wasn't literally glinting gold as he opened his mouth wide on stage while purging something from deep inside. 

Their tongues undulate against each other and Josh can't help himself from ghosting his fingers against Tyler's bare skin through the sides of his shredded tank top. "This feels amazing," Josh manages to gasp against Tyler's smiling mouth. 

"Hell of drug, yeah?" Tyler hums, and Josh can't manage to gasp _Yes, you are_ , because Tyler is gently pulling his tongue between his lips, sucking on it, and Josh can't manage to do anything but gasp.


	2. Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Speedy updatez.  
> So, I'm not going to name what city they're in! You guys can decide for yourself; I'm trying to be Vague and Mysterious. 
> 
> Build up. But I'll get back to where Chapter 1 left off eventually. Also, I stared at this for too long and can't see typos anymore so sorry if I butchered something. 
> 
> <3

Josh moved to this metropolitan ember in the heart of Europe, the one he can't tear himself away from but still can't stomach calling "home", two years ago. Initially, he set out on his journey with a semester away in mind. Even that scared him, all of his life spent in suburban Ohio, never going farther than a few states out of bounds. 

He'd always been an anxious boy, a good boy, nervously wringing his hands and quietly marching towards the goal his parents charted for him, the one all suburban parents do: a degree, a white collar job, a house, a wife, two children, a neat picket fence around it all to bind it together and choke his dreams. 

Despite this, he gently toed the line of rebellion, dying his hair, piercing his nose, and picking up the drums. Sliding his hands under the covers to coax forth throaty moans at the thought of handsome boys from his classrooms and lecture halls? He'd kept that one to himself, figuring it was something he'd deal with later. 

His final act was going abroad, which his parents reacted to with stern reasoning and tightly pursed lips. He convinced them, though, that this was like his appearance and his penchant for violent drum beats: an aesthetic choice, just a little pepper on the bland meal of his life. 

"Nothing will change", he'd said, and, "It's just a few months."

Josh didn't mean to lie. He really didn't. He was completely earnest then, as he is now, as he always is. 

He jumped into the icy waters of a new culture, of subway lines and street names that wouldn't ever roll off his tongue, of baroque buildings hugging their modern, skeletal brothers, of foods that either delighted or repulsed him, of pounding clubs with low legal drinking ages and sunny cafés lined with the foliage of quietly rustling newspaper held by aged hands. 

The months flew by, and Josh found a side of himself, the one uninhibited by his loving but unyieldingly conservative upbringing, the one he actually liked. He found himself smiling more, he found himself dreaming again, he found himself with less hand-wringing and blushing. 

At the end of his semester abroad, he couldn't stomach the idea of taking his smattering of colorful impressions, his newly opened eyes, back to cookie-cutter homes and Sundays at church. He knew his newly-found self would turn to ashes if he went back to the familiarity that turned him into such an anxious mess, always clinging to and dreading his inevitably dry, safe future. In this city, he felt alive in the present. The future was back home. 

So, he chose to enclose himself in the amber of the moment.

So, he dropped out. So, he found a job that didn't require him to master the local foreign tongue (an international music store, the one where he bought his cajon upon arrival, where he would sell many more to kids without the space and money for a drum kit). So, he got a work visa. So, he lugged his suitcase and his cajon out of his dorm and took up residence in an old-style apartment. So, he found roommates. So, he stayed. 

With each of his actions further destroying his once certain future and binding him to this foreign city, he could hear his mother's heart break, bit by bit, week by week, on the phone. His father stopped joining in on the conversations altogether. His siblings half-heartedly liked his Facebook pictures of old monuments and rowdy new friends, leaving only Ashley to comment on the pictures with some jealousy and a lot of admiration for her brother's courage to break out. 

Two years later, living and working in the city brought end to the honeymoon phase Josh experienced there in his first months. He stayed, not because he was in love with where he was, but because he feared what returning to familiarity would do to him. 

Even now, after nestling himself into the city's life, he spends most of his time alone. It's not for the same reasons he had few friends in Columbus- anxiety choking him, making it hard to appear as friendly and warm as his heart truly was- but because the cultural differences create a barrier. Even though globalization means all the people he meets in his age group speak perfect English, lilted only slightly by a charming accent, he finds himself distanced by the nuances. Jokes he doesn't get, they don't get. References he can't throw in. Gestures that feel inappropriate on either end. He has some friends, sure, some romances and flings, sure, but no one really digs deep.

Josh is okay with this, because he's finally become one of his own best friends.

His roommates are kind; Debby, a quiet art student, escapes in her room for hours to smear charcoal into canvas with her fingers and keep up with her intense workload; she's studying at an art school once frequented by old masters, after all. Josh knows nothing about art and rarely sees her, but sometimes they chat idly over cigarettes and tea in the morning before her classes and his early shift, and he's fond of her quiet insights and warm smile.

Their other roommate is Mark, a boy enraptured by his journalism and film studies. Josh sees him even less in the apartment than Debby, as he spends most of his time shooting the bustling scenes of the city or at his girlfriend's place, but they get to know each other over warm, flat beer at the student parties Mark texts Josh about every other Friday or so. Josh knows nothing about film, but he likes Mark. 

They are both locals from more rural parts of the country and they help Josh feel at home when he can't navigate tax forms or their ancient land lady scolds him with guttural sounds he can't decipher. 

After one and a half years of working his quiet job at the Ma and Pa international music shop, Josh decides he's had enough of drumming his cajon alone in his room or during the idle hours of his shift. His dreams have resurfaced, after all, after all he did to beat them down in Ohio. He wants to be in a band. He wants the lights, he wants the sweat, he wants to be a part of creation. 

So, Josh starts roaming the city at night for months, in search of bands to join, when he isn't plagued by an early morning shift at the shop the next day. 

The idea comes to him while he's untaping his hands after slamming into his wooden box into the night and is forced to stop by the ancient land lady. He's scratching away filaments of glue and nursing a spliff between his teeth. He thinks to Google the local music scene, to see what's out there.

So, he does. So, he fixes his hair and pulls on a dark hoodie. So, he rides subways and trolleys and goes to Midnight Haven with his mind softly buzzed and a warm feeling of contentment in his belly. 

He arrives at the little club and climbs down the steps into the cellar. The walls are cracked, paint peeling, stickers of alternative political slogans and experimental bands attempting to cover the damage. 

Josh smiles to himself, thinking, _This is right._

When he opens the door to the establishment, he's met with the mustiness of cellar mold and thick cigarette smoking pooling around the eclectic gaggle of patrons (people his age with piercings and tattoos, people twice his age clinging to the bar and telling slurry tales of loves lost, people thrice his age playing chess under a naked lightbulb).

_This is where I belong._

The band hasn't started yet, but they're setting up, so Josh makes his way to the bar and orders a small beer. The bartender looks languid and spacey, but kind enough, so Josh strikes up conversation while the boy taps his beer. 

"So, this band any good?" Josh asks. 

The boy behind the bar lets his shoulders jump. 

"Eh, they've been through here a couple of times. Not really my taste," he huffs, handing over a mug with spindly fingers. 

Josh didn't Google Panic at the Disco before he came; all he knew is that they were local, much appreciated by their few hundred followers on twitter, and playing a free gig at Midnight Haven tonight. 

"More of a Tom Waits kind of guy, maybe?" Josh ventures, gesturing at the boy's newsboy cap perched over his brown curls. 

"Something like that," he muses in response, looking spacey again, this time with a soft smile on his face. 

"Your first time here?" he asks, equally observant as Josh, despite his tired eyes.

"How'd you know?" Josh asks. 

"This places is 90% regulars, my friend. It's kind of shitty," the boy hums, picking varnish off the bar with a fingernail, "but a couple of people really dig this place, call it home. The crowd is miles better than the tourists and 14 year oldS on X over at Tilt and Glaring Trout anyway, even if they have better DJs."

Josh nods in agreement, though he hasn't been inside Midnight Haven for more than 15 minutes. The clubs the bartender mentions aren't new to him; he remembers his first few weeks in town exploring the delightfully low drinking age of the city inside them and coming out feeling sticky, with his head pounding. No, he likes the intimate atmosphere here, likes the shapes of all the puzzling patrons coming together nicely despite their mismatched colors. 

"You might be seeing more of me," Josh says, grinning. He reaches an arm over the bar. "I'm Josh."

"Ryan," the boy nods, giving his hand a tight shake. 

Someone taps a microphone and the sound reverberates through the room. Ryan turns a dial inside the breaker box on the wall and the lights dim. 

"It's an honor to be back here at Midnight Haven," the lead singer begins, leaning over his acoustic guitar to clutch the microphone. 

Josh's heart sinks at the sight of their percussionist, knowing this isn't the band to approach with his musical aspirations, but drinks in their gaudy make-up and baroque vests with delight anyhow. 

Lead singer's plump mouth curls into a smile. "All courtesy of the gracious, wonderful, strikingly handsome owner, the man we all know and love, Mr. Ryan Ross. Give our man of the hour a round of applause!" the man bellows, pointing at the bar. 

Ryan waves away the man's garish compliments and hides his head behind cupped hands to light a cigarette. 

The small crowd claps wildly and one or two rowdy customers let out a whistle and a whoop. 

The lead singer is grinning widely now as eyes settle back onto him. 

"The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide is Press Coverage," he purrs, his voice and persona now taking on something serious and smoky. Josh thanks this city and most of its music for falling into the grasp of globalization and allowing him to enjoy the richness of the wordy title, all in English, all for him. 

"We're Panic at the Disco!" 

Josh leans forward on the bar, bounces his leg, feels a jump of anticipation in his gut as music envelops the room. 

\--

Josh's first night at Midnight Haven puts a spring in his step the next day. 

The small band, with their free show and small set, had set the room ablaze with music Josh had only ever heard in his dreams. After that night, he goes to Midnight Haven a couple of times a week, when his hours allow, doing his best to scope out more local acts with the same air of enchantment, hoping that maybe, maybe he'll get lucky and join one of those hidden gems. 

Josh never knew how much he needed untrained singers belting raw, dark words directly from their hearts, untainted by the expectations that come with a large following, until his first night at Midnight Haven. 

It takes a few weeks (a few wonderful weeks of discovering more musical gems, like Fall Out Boy and My Chemical Romance, of buying the lead singer of Panic at the Disco, Brendon, a beer, and lamely gushing over his enjoyment of the show, of crumbling and throwing away Brendon's number when he sees Ryan's face twist at its appearance, of getting chummy with the spacey bartender and the eclectic patrons of the bar) before Josh first encounters Tyler. 

Tyler, whose name he doesn't know yet. He only knows the band is dubbed "|-/", something he can't pronounce, and posted on Midnight Asylum's Facebook wall with a black and white photo of a slender figure, face hidden in a balaclava. 

Josh is a little late to the show, the blame of which he'll place upon his boss for making him stay an hour late for some man who wanted a very specific kind of exotic xylophone, so he arrives well into the band's first song. 

He hears a muffled voice and piano pounding through the walls as he pushes open the door to Midnight Haven and the first verse he hears in absolute clarity hits him like a punch, knocking the wind out of him. With the intensity of the singer's emotional timbre and the bite of his highly personal lyrics, Josh can't do anything but stand glued to his spot, heart tight, eyes glassy. 

"Driving once again, but now this time there were three men,  
And then I heard one of them say, 'I know the night will turn to gray,  
I know the stars will start to fade, when all the darkness fades away,  
We had to steal him from his fate so he could see another day,"  
And then I cracked open my box, someone must have picked the lock,  
A little light revealed the spot where my fingernails had fought,  
Then I pushed it open more, pushing up against the door,  
Then I sat up off the floor and found the breath I was searching for,  
There they were, three men up front, all I saw were backs of heads,  
And then I asked, 'I'm alive and well, or am I dreaming dead?'  
Then one turned around to say, 'We're driving toward the morning, son,  
Where all your blood is washed away and all you did will be undone,'"

is the first time Josh hears Tyler's voice and the first time Tyler leaves him immovable, except for a gentle quiver throughout his entire body. Only when the singer returns to the softening lullaby of "Don't be afraid," does Josh start to pull his jelly legs over to the bar. The song ends, the small crowd claps, and the singer rolls a cigarette between his fingers. He doesn't look up or address the crowd or introduce his next song. Josh feels almost like he's intruding on something private, peering into the man's window instead of at a stage. 

He places the crooked cigarette between his equally crooked teeth, lights it, and inhales, as he begins his next song. 

"Hello," and smoke conceals his face, "we haven't talked in quite some time." 

Josh wants to reach out and wave it away, because the singer's face is delicate and Josh wants to see his heavy down-turned lashes and soft dusting of stubble. Josh wants, he really wants, and his friends would chide him for saying anything about "love at first sight", but he feels a deep ache to know, really know, this man from the moment he hears his home-hitting words poured into the microphone and bouncing around the walls of the cellar. 

With each song, Josh feels more and more of a pull. Between songs, Josh feels the plan concocting in the back of his mind as he watches Tyler pace from piano, to ukulele, to laptop, no percussionist in sight, thank God. 

When Tyler screams about silence, Josh knows he has to smother the anxiety knotting his stomach, and introduce himself- and his cajon, of course. 

The show ends, and finally, the singer lifts his eyes and scans the room, almost as though he's forgotten he's performing. Finally, he speaks. 

"I'm Twenty One Pilots, and so are you. Thank you," his voice gruff from the screaming. 

The crowd praises his performance accordingly, a couple of patrons near the back whistling. Tyler slides his ukulele, his laptop, and his keyboard into their black bags, shoulders them, and hops off the stage, eyes cast downward again. 

Chatter resumes and fills the bar with a gentle hum as Tyler makes his way to the bar, to Josh, who is motionless, save for a quiver, again. 

"Vodka," he orders from Ryan, who solemnly nods and pours him a shot while Tyler rolls, bites and lights a cigarette.

The first of many to come, a marionette string lifts Josh's hand towards Tyler. "Hey, I'm Josh," he sputters, heart pounding, voice shaking. Tyler doesn't lift his hand, doesn't move, only trails his eyes over to Josh. A moment passes, a moment caught in amber that feels like eternity to Josh, where they make eye contact, breaths on either end bated. 

Tyler releases his first, and a plume of smoke comes with it, clouding Josh's vision and making his eyes water. 

"That's nice," he hears Tyler say, as his slender figure stands, downs the shot, rattles coins on the bar, and disappears around the corner, up the stairs and out into the cool night of the city in what feels like a perfectly choreographed disappearance act to Josh, whose heart sinks deeper with every thrum.


	3. Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this what the kids call "filler" these days? I'll get the ball rolling soon.  
> It's my birthday today! Here's my gift to you~.
> 
> Thanks for the positive feedback in the form of comments and kudos so far. <3

Josh slumps onto the bar while Tyler escapes. The anxiety of moments prior starts to fade and he feels deflated.

Ryan hands him a beer he hasn't ordered.

"Don't take it personally," he says in an attempt to soothe Josh's wounded ego. "The guy's talented, but he's a total junkie." 

Josh thinks back to Tyler's limbs jerking themselves around like he's being pulled apart from the inside on the tiny stage, but ignores Ryan's thinly veiled warning and asks, "What's his name?" 

"Tyler," Ryan answers. "Why? Are you interested?"

"Well," Josh begins, a hand over his heart, which has only now begun to resume a healthy rhythm. "I mean, his music's great, and I noticed he didn't have a drummer. It'd be a dream to be a part of something like that." 

Ryan's expression is cryptic, his lips pursed. 

"Good luck with that," he says, "The guy's unpredictable. Definitely has a temperament. He's in here, chatting up girls with his 'beautiful disaster' charm one night, silently getting wasted another night, hands shaking with bags under his eyes another… Not sure if I'd want to be in a band where the lead singer's a fucking head case."

Josh shrugs impassively and takes a sip of his beer, when Ryan leans across the bar to give him a supportive pat on the shoulder. He knows his spite has fallen on deaf ears. 

"Good luck, man," he says again, this time sounding more sincere. 

\--

Tyler's show at Midnight Haven also puts a spring in Josh's step. 

He googles "Twenty One Pilots" on his way home, almost missing his subway stop as he's drinking in all he can find online, which isn't much. He finds a Twitter account, left bare except for upcoming performances and pictures of Tyler, veiled in smoke and balaclavas, leaving Josh nothing to solidify his memory of the man's effete face. 

Josh marks all the upcoming performances in his calendar and suddenly his biweekly trek to Midnight Haven turns into an additional weekly trek around the nefarious outer rim of the city. 

He questions his own intentions with Ryan's words clattering around in his head like coins. Was there any point in getting involved with a man who couldn't be bothered to give his name? One with a mercurial temperament and an erratic mind? 

But Josh, Josh finds his way home from Midnight Haven, rolls himself a spliff and lets himself unfold into sleep with the only five live recordings of Twenty One Pilots he manages to find online playing quietly in his earbuds. His dreams bring forth images of the sea and birds plummeting into deserts. 

He awakens with a spring in his step. 

At work, Josh finds himself experimenting with beats for the band's piano ballads on his cajon until his hands swell and his boss scolds him for his misplaced vigor. 

Every week, for weeks on end, Josh finds himself traveling to districts in the city, condemned by his old travel guides as nefarious and shady. 

Every night Twenty One Pilots performs, he'll blame the electricity in his limbs and the churning in his stomach on the shadiness of the district rather than his intended reunion with Tyler. He finds himself more and more enamored with each show, though he doesn't approach the elusive singer anymore, still bleeding out from their embarrassing first encounter. 

Midnight Haven feels like a cheap imitation of "run-down" in comparison to this bar he's at tonight. Josh has to weave his body between men trying to coax him over with whispered promises of drugs and climb over a puddle of bile before he can hide himself in a booth to the right of the stage. His neighbors adjacent pass him a joint, but he declines with a polite smile. 

It doesn't take long for Tyler to begin his set up, juggling wires and plugging in amps with his back turned to the stage. His face is masked by a black balaclava and he begins his first song without addressing the crowd. 

Josh feels like he's being thrown head first into a freezing ocean, overcome by the sudden wash of the singer's pained voice. He can't unravel himself from this feeling he had at the very first show, this feeling that seems to only magnify with each additional show he visits. 

Tonight, though, something stands out to Josh, seizes him in his seat. There's a moment when Tyler purges a cry of emotion where his eyes meet Josh's. Time freezes, Josh feels like the camera pans around him. They make eye contact and neither break it until Tyler clamors for another breath and slams his hands onto the keys. Josh balls his hands in fists, testing for numbness. 

This time, the show ends with disinterested applause but Tyler seems equally disinterested and packs away his instruments with little disappointment on his face. Josh can't tear his eyes away, can't reign in his fascination for the singer's constant disengagement with the audience despite his impassioned performances. He wants to peel back the curtains and peer inside Tyler, wants to see the cogs of his mind churning.

Tonight, Josh knows he has to try again. 

He pulls himself from his seat when Tyler goes to hop off the stage. This time, he's making his way straight for the exit, not bothering for a pit stop at the bar. 

Josh has to skip to keep up and follows the man outsider. 

"Hey," Josh calls out to the retreating slender figure. Tyler freezes and casts a glance over his shoulder. His eyes lined with dark shadows, he scans Josh from top to bottom. 

"Josh," he breathes through the smoke pooling from his mouth, another cigarette perched in his lips. 

"Oh," and Josh feels his face flush. "You remembered?" He wishes he could choke on his nervous laughter and die peacefully in the moment. 

Tyler's mouth twists into a small smile.

"What are you, a groupie?"

"W-why would you say that?" Josh stammers and bubbles out more nervous laughter. He hates himself for regressing years backwards in his social skills, but there's something so overpowering in Tyler's elusive presence that he can't shake his nerves. 

"You've been to every one of my shows in the past month," Tyler says, taking a thorough drag. "And you stare at me like a fucking puppy at every one of them." 

He turns around fully now, his smile evolving into dimples. 

Josh cards a hand through his hair and tries to shrug with as much indifference as he can feign. 

"I just love your work," he says, "It's really powerful. And uh, I'm a drummer looking for a band, and yours seems to be lacking one, so I, uh, figured I'd ask if you ever needed…" 

"You're want to be in Twenty One Pilots?" 

Josh can only nod, not trusting himself to say anymore. 

Tyler's expression looks sickeningly Cheshire, but he shrugs and flicks his cigarette butt into the gutter. 

"Show me what you can do." 

That night, Josh can only demonstrate his skills in the form of gentle finger rolls across Tyler's skin with MDMA pounding in his skull.


	4. Gardens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a week off work and access to alcohol so if u think I didn't write this while I was tipsy and procrastinating on my bachelor thesis, you are sorely mistaken. 
> 
> Bad credit? No credit? Have an aching love for run-on sentences? Then this is the fic for you. 
> 
> Might as well call this fic "Sex, Drugs and Ukulele Screamo" and it's sort of embarrassing how much I pulled from "real life experiences". But no worries, I have a plan. There will be character development.

Josh never really liked winter. In Columbus, endless days of grey left him sullen and moody. The winters here aren't any better and he often curses himself at the height of January for not running away to some South Pacific island instead of trading his hometown for a city with an identical climate. 

But there's something especially biting in the wind this winter, the air crisp and turning everyone's breath into mist. Waiting for his tram, walking down the street, every passerby, with fog pooling from their mouths, reminds him of Tyler's incessant chain-smoking. Every corner he turns, there's another hunched figure, coughing, making smoke, and all he can think about is Tyler's smoke clouding his vision and turning sweet kisses bitter.

But there's always a bitter aftertaste when he kisses Tyler. Once upon a time, he thought he could acquire the taste, like beer, and maybe he did, briefly, but tonight it reminds him more of belladonna- sweet, bitter, utterly deliriant. 

\--

Their languid kissing is interrupted by a gruff knock on the door. 

Tyler had ordered them pizza before cutting lines. He releases Josh's tongue and plants a tender kiss on his forehead as he shoves himself off the sofa, and Josh feels something inside him set ablaze, a flame coming to life in the hearth of his heart. 

The only problem with fires is their notoriety for turning everything to ashes.

Tyler returns with a pizza in hand and places it on the coffee table before them. 

"This is stupid," he remarks and Josh tilts his head in confusion. He gestures towards the pizza. "Molly kills your appetite." 

Josh gives a shrug. 

"It still smells amazing," he says, reaching to open the box and dislodge a piece. It does smell amazing to Josh, whose senses are still heightened, but he doesn't find his mouth watering. If anything, his stomach sort of churns, and he feels a little like Tantalus. Not wanting to appear foolish, he takes a bite anyway, the gooey cheese and spicy pepperoncini sticking to the roof of his mouth and forming an unappetizing paste. Defeated, he returns the slice to its box. 

Tyler's eyes are trained on him with an air of amusement and mischief. "Told you," he chuckles, resting a hand on Josh's knee. "I'm an expert when it comes to these things." He's leaning in again to bridge the gap between their faces when Josh blurts out the first thought that comes to mind. 

"What are you, a junkie?" It sounds more rude than Josh intended and he wants to clap both hands over his mouth to stop molly from purging anymore thoughts, unfiltered, from his brain. 

Tyler seems unfazed, though, and takes Josh's face in his hands. Their eyes meet and a moment passes, Tyler intently running his thumbs under Josh's eyes. Although he consumed much more than Josh, he's mulling over the words in his own mind, not allowing them to tumble out with abandon. 

"I just can't get enough of pleasure," he coos, finally, pressing a kiss to Josh's nose. He brings his lips to Josh's and the kiss is nothing like their slow honey from before. It's jagged edges and thorns, with Tyler using both teeth and tongue to devour him. Josh lets out a low groan and clings to Tyler's shirt just to stay afloat. He bites and kisses back in full force and they teeter back and forth, one biting, the other sighing, one nipping and the other bucking his hips, tangled in the vines of their limbs.

Josh feels overpowered by his desire and trails his hands down to Tyler's jeans, already fumbling with buttons and zippers. It's uncharacteristic, Josh taking the lead like this. If anything, the thing he always enjoyed most about his dates with men was the ability to remain passive, coy, flirtatious, luring in the other party to make a move. But Josh, unhinged from his anxiety, pulls down Tyler's jeans and slides onto his knees in front of the couch. 

He nuzzles Tyler through his underwear, and of course, he's already hard, because Josh has been equally hard for most of the night, and this is a two-way street. He noses the fabric up and down, kisses it and palms it, until Tyler dips his thumbs into his own waistband with shaking hands and exposes himself entirely.

Josh buries his nose in the dark tuft of Tyler's pubic hair, taking in his scent, and ruts against Tyler's leg, ignited by something primal in the musky scent. He peppers Tyler's shaft with kisses and gentle licks, paying extra attention to the spot right beneath Tyler's head, and god, Tyler must be enjoying this, because his face flushes and he's bucking his hips needily. 

Tyler grabs a fistful of Josh's hair and pulls him away. He leans the boy's head back and pulls Josh's mouth open with his other hand. Josh feels a lot like the prey of a wild animal, moments before the killing strike. Tyler leans over him, eyes full of intention, parts his lips and lets out a thick string of saliva, dropping it into Josh's mouth, who might have, under different circumstances, retched, but instead shudders and keens. He closes his mouth and swallows before Tyler gives him a peck and pushes him back to his cock.

Josh parts his lips and takes Tyler as far as he can, bracing himself. His vision feels blurry with tears, but with every bob of his head, every time Tyler's cock hits the back of his throat and Tyler lets out whimper, he feels like he's getting fucked himself. His moans are wanton and spit dribbles down his chin, but he can't stop, can't stop impaling his own throat and embellishing every bob with strokes of his tongue. Tyler's playing with his hair now too, raking his scalp and gently jerking his hips, and when Josh looks up, their eyes meet, equally dark and full of lust. 

Tyler's swollen lips part to form whimpers of a higher and higher pitch and he starts to press Josh's face down, down, down to the hilt of his cock. Josh almost convulses as he fights his gag reflex, but then he feels a wash of salt on his tongue and with the way Tyler doesn't break his gaze as he's coming undone, he can feel the ghost of Tyler's orgasm reverberate through him, too. 

Tyler's panting as he pulls Josh off him by his hair again and brings them together for a more sordid kiss. He laps his own cum from Josh's mouth and swallows greedily. Josh ruts against Tyler's leg again, now the needy one, now desperate. 

"God, that was good," Tyler pants into his mouth.

"God, it kind of burns from the peppers you ate," Tyler adds and before Josh can gush apologies, "God, that was everything I needed." Josh can only answer, "God," and smile into their kiss. 

\--

With each hour that passes, with Tyler's soft snores and the ticking of the clock on the wall grating against his nerves, Josh feels more and more raw. The comedown from what he took the night before is rough and for all the color and life he felt coursing through his veins before, he now feels an equal level of emptiness. Still, he can't sleep, so when the first rays of light creep into the mattress on the floor, Josh pulls himself out of bed, clamors for a pair of underwear he's sure aren't his after he pulls them on, and stumbles to the kitchen to make coffee. 

The kitchen is a mess of dripping faucets and dishes caked with mold, of open wine bottles and glasses stained with lipstick and coffee grounds on the counter. With all of his exhaustion, Josh can barely make sense of the chaos, but he follows the coffee crumb trail back to its package and the discolored coffee maker. He brews something that looks like tar, but welcomes the warm mug in his hands, and patters back to the bedroom. 

As he returns to the mattress, his foot catches on an abandoned shoe and time seems to slow as he watches a spatter of the tarlike brew in his hands hop out of the cup and lash Tyler's bare arm. 

The latter's snores stop instantly and he's torn from sleep with searing pain on his arm. Eyes bleary, Tyler blinks at Josh and rubs the forming burn. 

"You could have just shaken me awake," he says quietly, his voice not quite joking. 

Josh feels terrible and runs his tongue over the wound, bringing his lips together to blow a cool breeze over Tyler's skin. "I'm so sorry, baby, I just… I tripped." 

He sets his mug far away from Tyler and continues to blow.

"What are you doing?" Tyler asks him, voice still not amused. He seems irritable having been shaken from his coma, the one he fell into the moment after he bucked into Josh and came hard enough for them both to see stars.

"Couldn't sleep," Josh answers, suddenly feeling worse. 

Tyler nods, rubbing a hand over his face. He reaches for his discarded pair of jeans and pulls out his tobacco pouch, digs through it with his fingers and pulls out a joint.

"Get in here," Tyler orders, opening the sheets for Josh to climb in next to him. Josh follows, and Tyler places the joint between Josh's lips, clicks open his Zippo, the one from last night, the one still dusted with powder, and ignites it. 

Josh inhales and exhales and lets the smoke billow over Tyler, who doesn't flinch. 

His voice gruff from the smoke, the smoke he isn't quite as used to as Tyler is, Josh says, "I want to know you." He takes another drag to end his thought. 

Tyler's face remains expressionless as Josh inhales again.

"What does that mean?" he says, propping his head on one hand. "Can you ever really know anyone, Josh? Think about it. Do your friends, does your family know what's going on behind your face? That your psyche isn't full of fucking green gardens? We're all in love with ideas of each other."

"You're so hard to talk to, Tyler," Josh says, exhaling a pungent plume of smoke. Tyler shrugs. 

"I love basketball, I'm from Ohio, I came here on a church mission, I no longer believe in God, I can't read music and I've slept with 126 people. Do you feel better now, Josh? Feel closer to figuring me out?" His expression is still unreadable, but one corner of his mouth curls up. 

Josh sighs, feeling overwhelmingly lethargic from the joint and Tyler's dump of information. _Ohio? Church? 126?_ He feels his thoughts soften with the pot, decides to deal with his wonder and judgment when he's sober, and hands the joint back to Tyler, who immediately takes a never-ending drag.

"Yes," Josh says, burying his face in Tyler's throat. "Thank you." He ends his thought with a peck against warm skin.

Ash lands on Tyler's chest, but he still doesn't flinch. He places a hand on the back of Josh's neck and pulls him up for an open mouthed kiss, releasing the smoke from his lungs into Josh's. 

Josh read about this, once. Some performance artist and her boyfriend stuck their mouths together and breathed each other's breaths until they passed out, making some statement about "using each other up". Right now, he doesn't mind. He wants Tyler to use him up, he wants to drift off and forget.

With Tyler's moist smoke filling his lungs and the warmth of THC spreading through every limb, eventually, he does.


	5. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is interested in the creative process of this work, I always write everything completely out of order as it comes to mind. When I'm surfing the 'net or bussing tables or something and a snippet of a scene or conversation hits me, I immediately write it down and then at the end, I copy and paste stuff around and add a little filler to make it cohesive~. 
> 
> Or, at least I hope it's cohesive .
> 
> Does anyone have a prompt for me, maybe for a one-shot? I'm itching to write but I feel like whenever I work on this fic too quickly, I don't give the ideas enough time to stew properly, if that makes sense. You can also tell me on Tumblr if you want: stalk-softly.tumblr.com
> 
> As always, thanks for the kind comments! <3

When Josh drifts back into consciousness, it's to the tune of a disjointed piano melody and tentative humming. He smiles at the thought of being so close to Tyler's creative process. 

He pulls himself out of bed, struggling to leave behind the warm nest of sheets, but wants to be closer to Tyler's warmth. He pulls on a shirt before pushing open the creaking double doors and into the living room. 

Tyler sits poised on the ground, hunched over his keyboard, with an ample town of paper fanned around him. There are stacks of skyscrapers, there are crumpled paper shacks, even finely scrawled napkins lining the roads, all around and under him. 

Tyler seems to be pasting together the puzzle of a new song, testing chords and riffs as he pulls lyrics out of alleyways, sifts through neighborhoods to find the right words. His brows are furrowed and he's biting the butt of a cigarette already burned to the filter. He seems unfazed by the ash smearing across one of his pages, unaware of the rim of his coffee mug circling around a phrase. He doesn't hear Josh come in, or does nothing to indicate that he has. 

"Hey," Josh says softly, not wanting to startle the singer. 

Tyler plants a quick "Mornin'" between the notes of the melody he's humming. 

Josh crouches and lays a hand against Tyler's jaw from behind, trailing kisses down the boy's neck. Although Tyler leans into his touch, sighing, his fingers don't stop fumbling with the keys. His body is here, enjoying Josh's hands and mouth, while his mind is far off. When he can't tear the singer out of his frenzied trance, and isn't sure if he wants to, really, Josh rises and makes his way to the bathroom. 

He closes the door behind him and fishes into the underwear that aren't is. He goes to stand over the toilet and as he's pissing, Josh takes in the room. The only light is a bare bulb, dangling from the high ceiling by a wire. Mold creeps out of the shower drain to keep a ball of hair company and there are cracks in the tiles, in the corner of the mirror, which is spattered with toothpaste and fingerprints. 

If living quarters are a reflection of their inhabitants, Josh can only infer that Tyler is filthy and empty. But he's sure that isn't true, even if most of what he knows about Tyler is from his music, and decides to focus his eyes on the ashtray poised on a roll of toilet paper.

When he's done, Josh shakes himself clean and turns to the washing machine, the one leaking a puddle onto the cold tiles under his feet. He notes the long overdue finished spin cycle, pops open the door, and takes care to wring out Tyler's sopping load of laundry. He drapes it around the bathroom, wherever he can find an empty surface, and neatly tucks a towel under the washing machine. It's something.

He exits the bathroom and finds himself in the kitchen, where he busies himself with some of the soiled plates and glasses. He likes this, he likes the domesticity in cleaning up after Tyler, because it feels akin to playing house. Here he is, the doting spouse, setting things right in the bedlam of Tyler's life, complementing him with rhythm and order. 

With the cabinets peeling and the shade of the countertops hard to distinguish after years of leaking coffee mugs, the room still doesn't look stellar, but it's something.

Josh cracks open the refrigerator and finds little except a few stains, an onion unrecognizable from mold, a stack of energy drinks and the pizza from the night before, though he's not sure how it ended up in the refrigerator after they dissolved in a mess of panting and tangled limbs. He pulls it out and sets two slices on two plates. There's no microwave in sight, so Josh has to resign himself to a breakfast of cold pizza. A doting spouse can only do so much about breakfast with limited resources. 

He returns to the living room and sets a plate in front of Tyler, who doesn't look up. 

"No thanks, no appetite for breakfast," Tyler says, eyes still trained on the papers in front of him, dangling a small plastic bag between his fingers. He licks one finger and dips it into the bag. His mouth turns into a sneer as he lifts up a lip and presses powder into his gums.

"Uh," Josh manages, backing himself into the couch with one plate still in his hands. "Uhm, isn't it kind of… early?" Really, he has no idea what time it is, but it's daylight and only hours have passed since their last "trip".

"Can't handle the comedown from molly so I'm just coasting," Tyler mumbles, hiding the bag somewhere under his papers. Josh doesn't have much experience to compare, but Tyler doesn't really look high, perched over his papers with a calm intensity, so he chooses to trust his words. That's the problem- Josh always trusting, always assuming everyone is just as earnest as he is. Naiveté is his hamartia.

Josh decides to take a bite of his own breakfast, the cold pizza, not tasting any better despite his sobriety and growling stomach, but he forces it down anyway. 

He clears his throat, wiping grease from his mouth with the back of his hand. 

"So, am I your number 126?" Josh says quietly, wanting more of the conversation they breached in the morning, wanting to know more about Tyler. Of all the shreds of information Tyler gave him, this one stuck to his mind the most.

"Does that bother you?" Tyler says absentmindedly, giving most of his attention to the song he's scrawling down. 

Josh shakes his head, and he's not lying, he really isn't. It's not the number before him that makes him anxious, it's the idea of the number expanding past 126, past him, and being forgotten in the sea of bodies, just an insignificant drop in the sea of Tyler's sexual experience. 

"I mean, I'm not an angel either, uh, I've had a couple of one-night stands myself," Josh says, feeling a little bashful about his admission. He's kept most of his exploits private, preferring to preserve the experiences for his enjoyment alone. "But why so many?"

At that Tyler lifts his eyes from his work and stretches, lean muscles pulling themselves taught. He reaches for his tobacco pouch and busies himself with rolling a cigarette. 

"First, I was making up for lost time," he begins, spreading tobacco onto a fine leaf of paper. "I grew up with Christian values and when I realized they were bullshit, I wanted to catch up on all I missed."

He pulls a filter from the pouch and places it on the edge of the paper. 

"Then it was about intimacy. I loved seeing strangers remove their masks and cry out. It's fascinating, seeing someone in a state that no one else sees them in. It almost felt like love."

He takes the cradle of tobacco and begins packing the tobacco between nimble fingers. 

"And then it just turned into fucking because, hell, I like fucking." 

He licks the edge of the paper, looking up at Josh through dark lashes, and tucks the paper into the filter, producing a thin cigarette. Josh has to break the gaze and looks to his hands, face warm.

"But it's easy, you know? Guys complain about girls being frigid, not accepting their advances but it's so _easy_." 

He taps the filter end against a piano key, accenting his words with a soft trickle of C# majors. 

"You just have to look at a person, make them feel like you really see them. Most people are lonely." 

Finally, he places the cigarette between his lips and fishes for a lighter. 

"Yeah," is all Josh can say. This is the most that Tyler has ever spoken to him and his admissions are so casually intimate that he can't find the words. But he understands and he feels like he's finally pulling back the curtain, finally catching a glimpse of the thoughts stirring inside the enigma in front of him. 

"You said you play the drums," Tyler says now. 

"Yeah," Josh says again, and adds, "Well, more the cajon. I don't have a drum set here." 

"Back home?" Tyler says, arms already planted to the elbow in his pile of papers, rummaging for the right notebook.

Josh nods, and while Tyler doesn't look at him, he senses the former's response. 

"Where's that?" 

"Columbus," Josh says, and finally, Tyler's gaze snaps up, finally giving him the look he explained just prior, the one that makes him feel like he's being seen, really seen, and not like an unappetizing plate of cold leftovers from the night before. 

Tyler cracks an honest smile, one that isn't somehow marred with mockery, one that leaks genuine enthusiasm. He pulls his arms from the recesses of his papers and stands. He retrieves a crate from his kitchen and sets it in front of Josh. 

"To be totally honest, I didn't even consider letting you join the band," Tyler says, returning from the kitchen with a crate in his hands. He sets it down in front of Josh, who raises an eyebrow. 

"But another Columbian?" He's still smiling, even wider now. "Serendipity, Josh. Show me what you can do, and I really will consider it." 

This time, instead of drumming Tyler's skin with nervous fingertips, Josh takes a seat on the crate and experiments with his strikes, trying to find a variation in sound from its battered surface. When he thinks he's found something that could imitate a snare, something else that might be a bass tone, he looks to Tyler. 

"How about 'Holding Onto You'?" and Tyler nods, going to the window to retrieve his ukulele from the sill. 

The moment Tyler goes to strum, opens his mouth to spit a verse, Josh is there in full force. Everything he couldn't say to Tyler, everything that his anxious mutism tethered to his throat, is there, pouring out of him in frantic strikes. He squeezes his eyes shut and his entire body quakes with the beat. Even when Tyler stops, setting his ukulele back on the window sill and turns his gaze away, Josh goes on with equal fervor until the song is over. 

"This wasn't really supposed to be a band," Tyler says, cigarette still in his mouth, gazing out the window. His face is somber now and the sunlight over his face reveals the deep circles under his eyes. He looks ten years older with his face drained of emotion.

"It was me playing around on an old keyboard from home, trying to prove I could learn to use my hands again," he says, tugging up a shirt sleeve, running a finger down the deep vertical ridges on his wrist. He glances over his shoulder at Josh, with his eyebrows furrowed.

Josh can't find words again, but decides to rise from the crate, wanders to the window and snakes his arms around Tyler's waist. He speaks against Tyler's skin, pressing a kiss to his ear. One hand grasps Tyler's wrist, who flinches, but allows the touch.

"I'm Twenty One Pilots," he says, setting his cigarette on the window pane and turning around in Josh's arms. 

"And so am I," Josh completes the thought. 

"God," Tyler says and his face breaks into a small smile. He playfully pushes Josh's shoulder with the heel of his hand. "Whatever. If you can put that much emotion into hitting a fucking box on stage, you're in the band."

Josh doesn't speak, doesn't need to, and instead opts for bringing his lips to Tyler's.


	6. Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much for letting this fic stew in my mind. I woke up with a hangover, went to the butcher's in my pajamas and bought a rotisserie chicken and then worked on this for like, 5 hours, compulsively. I'm going to finish it tonight and see if I can get the final chapter up tomorrow and then maybe I can resume Living.
> 
> Long-ass chapter. I didn't know where to divide it so take these 4,300 words and have a jolly old time.
> 
> <3

When he finally leaves Tyler's apartment, he feels spring all around him in the blossoms on the trees and in his step. When he comes home, Mark's there, bleary-eyed and spooning cereal. He makes some comment about Josh being out all night, about Josh getting lucky. Josh says something about Mark having no idea, and they mirror broad grins. Mark gives him a high-five. 

Josh later retreats to his room to hit his wooden box, now with more precision, taking the time to find the right spots to embellish and other spots to stop hitting altogether, allowing Tyler's voice to croon through the room. He practices with perfectionism now, a goal in mind, a goal to accent Tyler's passionate lyrics with equally passionate beats. He's finally a part of creation, and nothing calms him as he bounces on the cajon, feeling wholly alive. 

When the sun starts to set and he knows his landlady will be prowling the corridors of his building again, Josh pulls out his phone to text Tyler. He thanks him for the night they shared, he asks when they can meet again.

Tyler doesn't answer him for days. He texts again, at some point, this time making sure to comment on their shared musical project, on maybe practicing together sometime and Tyler doesn't even read this message, despite some timestamp telling Josh he's been online. 

And Josh, Josh feels the blossoms in his steps wither, and his defeat shows when he drags himself to work, dutifully serving customers without his usual jovial candor. He feels something akin to withdrawal and looks it too, when he tries to smooth down his halo of frizzy curls in the morning, face pale, eyes dark. 

For some addicts, the first hit is enough to leave them thirsting for more. Josh never pegged himself as one, but when he can't fall asleep without the fix of Tyler's words softly carrying him to sleep, he knows he's in deep. 

One night, as Josh is battling to shut down his mind and sleep, he hears a chime on his phone. He feels a spike of adrenaline pool in his belly and he jumps to reach for his phone. 

The text is from Tyler.

It's curt, short, not answering any of Josh's questions about when they should practice together: _Need you. Come over_. 

_When? _Josh texts back, and eyes the time. 3:23am.__

_Now_ his phone chimes back instantly. Josh knows he shouldn't, with work in the morning, with Tyler's apartment tucked far away in the outer rim of the city, a half hour of subway lines away, but he can't help it when he toes on his shoes, pulls on a clean shirt. He doesn't want let the water in his hands slip through his fingers. 

__After a series of nearly empty subway cars, peppered only with intoxicated people clutching their heads or slurring and giggling in groups, Josh stands in front of Tyler's apartment. He knocks quietly and hears the quick pattering of bare feet on hardwood floor rush to the door. Tyler's face, pulled wide with a mischievous grin, huge pupils turning his eyes into two dark full moons, greets him. He pulls Josh inside by his hand and slams the door shut. With every step he bounces, his grin never fading._ _

__"I'm so glad you came, Josh, god, I really need you tonight, you know? Didn't want to be alone, looking and feeling so amazing, wanted to share it with someone, wanted to make the most of it, you know?" he babbles, words too loud and enthusiastic for the lines under his eyes, for the hour of the night._ _

__"You can have some too," Tyler says, one jittery arm thrown in the direction of a mess of white lines and an unfurling banknote on the kitchen counter. It's his idea of welcoming his guest, how others might offer a cup of coffee or a warm meal._ _

__The mess that Josh undid last time is back in double, more stacks of soiled plates and wineglasses with lipstick stains towering around the white lines. Josh pushes the implications away, doesn't let his mind linger on the idea of _127_ and _128_ pressing their lips to the glasses, pressing their lips to Tyler's throat. _ _

__He shakes his head, this time._ _

__The drug he's here for is already coiling arms around his waist, ghosting warm breath over his throat. Tyler bites into his neck, pulling skin between his teeth and blows lightly on the reddening spot. He trails these prickling kisses up and down Josh's neck, finally culminating his attack by bringing their lips together._ _

__Shaking hands snake under Josh's shirt, peeling it over his body and over his head. Tyler tosses it to the floor and slides out of his own shirt, toes off his sweatpants. There's a peak in his boxers, one that Josh wastes no time in palming through the fabric. Tyler's oversensitive, with his own drugs fresh in his mind, and he throws his head back, eyes shut, whimpering softly._ _

__He takes Josh's hand away from his crotch and pulls him to the living room. He pushes him down onto the sofa and gets to work undoing Josh's jeans, pulling his underwear with them._ _

__Their roles are reversed now, with Tyler on his knees before him, nosing his pubic hair hungrily. He drags wet kisses down his shaft, down his balls, and when Josh stutters his legs apart, Tyler presses them even further apart with his palms._ _

__He works one hand around his cock and noses his way to Josh's entrance, running a flat tongue over it leisurely, like he's savoring something sweet. He lets out a low moan and Josh can't stop himself from mirroring it. Tyler laps again, and kisses his hole, messy and greedy, all tongue and drool dripping from his chin. He sighs against Josh, plants another kiss, and replaces it with a finger, working and twisting it until he feels Josh stifle a moan with his hand. He adds another, and this time it's Josh, taking the initiative, pushing himself forward and down to the knuckle. When he adds a third finger, Josh turns into a quaking mess of muffled pleas._ _

__Tyler removes his hand and pulls himself out of his boxers. He guides himself into Josh, who's tugging his own cock haphazardly and they sigh into each others mouths as Tyler picks up a rhythm._ _

__Josh feels a raindrop hit his cheek. His eyes are closed and his throat is cradled in Tyler's hand, an act more possessive than oppressive, and he feels another raindrop skitter down his cheek. When Josh opens his eyes, Tyler is above him, mouth gaping, panting hotly and there's blood running down his chin, from his nose, onto Josh's face._ _

__Josh knows why and it tears at his heart, so he lifts his head to bring their mouths together. He tastes iron when he trails his tongue up, over Tyler's upper lip, to his nose. He licks away the blood as an act of damage control, the way he's always tidying up after Tyler, making his messes presentable but never digging deep enough to prevent them from happening in the first place._ _

__A month later, when he's lost in his phone at work, idly Googling the keywords of his relationship with Tyler, he finds the term "enabler". He presses his thumb to the X in the corner when he skims over "co-dependency". He doesn't know these terms now, though, just kisses Tyler and exchanges spit for blood._ _

__Tyler keeps going, endlessly, his orgasm a peak he can't scale with all the drugs in his blood. He bucks and bucks, well after Josh's ruts and comes over his own hand, until the latter whines with over stimulation. Tyler placates him with gentle kisses on his face, with nibbles down his chin. He doesn't stop._ _

__After the over-sensitivity fades, after his numbness fades, with Tyler still rutting against his prostate, Josh starts to feel pleasure pool and rise in his belly again, and shudders with an orgasm from deep inside. As he clenches around Tyler's cock, Tyler finally breaks and groans, hips stuttering and breaking his rhythm._ _

__He pulls out and collapses onto Josh, breath ragged._ _

__"We have a show next week," he says as he's tapping tobacco on Josh's chest to make another cigarette._ _

__\--_ _

__It's still spring when Josh performs his first show with Twenty One Pilots._ _

__He can't use words like Tyler does, he can't open his mouth to scream, but he speaks in fervent drumming, every bass tone personifying his heart beat. He can hit and strike his cajon until his hands swell, he can hit and strike until he turns into a blurry whirlwind of limbs._ _

__They make a good team, Tyler and him, bringing the stage alive with passion and their audience is left with dazed, gaping mouths and enthused clapping. Josh puts rhythm and order into Tyler's chaotic songs, tidies them up and makes them more presentable, the same way he does with Tyler's dirty dishes and ragged comedowns._ _

__When he bounds off the stage, Ryan's there, clapping a hand on his shoulder._ _

__"You guys were fucking amazing," he praises. "Jesus, Josh, remember me when you're famous, yeah?" He's tapping out a beer for Josh, on the house, with a broad grin._ _

__Josh pushes his cajon between the barstools and takes a seat._ _

__"You bet I will," he chuckles, nerves still wired with giddiness after their performance. "It all started here, in Midnight Haven, owned by the strikingly handsome Mr. Ryan Ross."_ _

__"Oh, shut up," Ryan says, still grinning, handing him a mug. He scans the room and narrows his eyes to Tyler, who's not at Josh's side at the bar, but across the room, chatting excitedly with a pale blonde girl. Ryan squints and nods his head in their direction, urging Josh to take note._ _

__"How's that going?" he asks, as Tyler brushes the girl's hair behind her ear, whispers into it. She breaks out into a giggle. He takes her phone and taps out something._ _

__Josh, Josh only glances and looks down at the bar, pushing away the _129, 130, 131_ , numbers climbing higher in the back of his mind. _ _

__He shrugs and buries a nose into the crown of beer foam in his glass._ _

__"I think I'm in love with him," he mouths into the foam._ _

__Ryan's eyes look tired._ _

__"Good luck," he says._ _

__\--_ _

__His giddiness lasts through the summer, even when the cellars they perform in turn tropical with the lack of air-conditioning typical for central Europe. They perform until sweat skitters off Tyler's brow, until Josh's hand slide around the tapa of his box. Their following has doubled, now that they're a real band, and every night makes Josh feel ignited with life._ _

__Josh continues to show up to Tyler's apartment well into the night, when the latter is over-amped and horny and they stick together on hot nights, chest to chest, adhered to each other with a fine sheen of sweat. Josh will stay until the following afternoon if he doesn't have work, nursing Tyler back to coherency, bringing him shitty coffee and emptying his ashtray, even retrieving the occasional baggy from his discarded jeans, allowing the latter to bump until he feels human again. Then they work through songs, Tyler opening up enough to let Josh's opinion influence their arrangements._ _

__All this time spent together, most of their interactions are wordless, mostly consisting of Josh taking on the role of attentive mind-reader, bringing Tyler what he needs and helping shape songs with small nods and head shakes._ _

__The conversations from their first night together are as deep as it goes, and Tyler explains this to him one night, as he's coming down from two peaks, with Josh licking the brine from his upper lip._ _

__Between the puffs on a joint, he explains, "I like to talk to strangers. I like leaving them with a piece of me and then never seeing them again," voice starting to weight itself down with the first tendrils of sleep. "I didn't intend to see you again, but I couldn't get you beating the shit out of that box out of my mind."_ _

__Not looking at Josh, he smiles at the ceiling. "But I can't talk to people who stick around, Josh, do you understand? I have nothing to give you." And Josh places a kiss against Tyler's palm._ _

__Despite this, despite Tyler never allowing Josh to scale his walls, despite the stained wine glasses always coming back after Josh tidies them away, despite Tyler leaving Josh waiting, always waiting for replies to his messages, never answering when Josh really needs it, Josh can't get enough. He always leaves the apartment walking on clouds._ _

__It takes a while for Josh to notice the leaves in the garden of his heart start to die, or maybe he's too enraptured in the beauty of their colors to see what's going on right away, but Tyler's late-night calls become more frequent, and now, more often than not, Josh can barely keep his eyes open on the job. Becoming a nurse to disaster creeps up on him._ _

__For a while, answering calls at all hours, mopping up vomit and bringing a glass to Tyler's lips when his hands shake too hard to do it himself feels like love. It takes a while for Josh to notice. It takes comments from his boss, his roommates and Ryan about the sallow tone of his complexion, the shaking in his hands, the way he jumps to answer every text that he receives, or maybe it's in his exhaustive dreams of Tyler's nose bleeding, bleeding, bleeding out over his shirt until he passes out, pale and lifeless. Maybe it's when Tyler shakes his head during an ardent performance, shaking away tears, and sends blood flying across the keys of his piano, erupting the quiet club into a sea of whispers._ _

__Maybe he notices that things start to crumble when he leaves Tyler's apartment with his feet dragging because they argued, again, when Josh tried to coax him away from starting his day out with a series of lines, and Tyler growled and locked himself into the bathroom. Maybe it's been like this for weeks, their light summer love turning grey as Tyler swings from elation and needy fucking to moodiness and slaps Josh's wrists when he tries to touch him._ _

__It creeps up on Josh until he's drowning in boiling water._ _

__\--_ _

__December first is a day of low hanging clouds and sleet pouring down, turning the streets grey with mush. Tyler throws a party for himself in his small apartment and people from Midnight Haven and Tyler's other, shadier haunts, crowd the rooms, spilling drinks on the sofa, tracking mud on his paper city, staining the walls with their culmination of cigarette smoke. Some kind of electro beat rattles the windows, drawing his neighbors out of their apartments to deliver complaints, but Tyler, Tyler's been working himself through an eight-ball and munching on pills so he laughs them off._ _

__Josh is there again, damage control, apologizing to neighbors, putting out Tyler's cigarettes before they burn his fingers, funneling him with water when Tyler tries to subsist on only vodka. He spends the night with his heart pounding, overstimulated, feeling raw and dry with his constant need to keep the party and Tyler from unraveling entirely. He corrals him away from people taking lines, away from flirting with shady characters, strokes the spot between his shoulder blades and rolls him a joint when he's paranoid and over-amped, always pushing his own limits, by the end of the night._ _

__The next day follows with a drop equal to Tyler's flight the night before. When Josh tiptoes around the rubble sometime in the afternoon, crushing beer cans with his feet, toes catching on an overfilled ashtray, he finds Tyler bracing himself over the kitchen sink. He's shirtless and his skin looks gaunt, clinging to his ribs. There's a cigarette poised in his hands._ _

__"Hey," Josh says softly. Tyler looks over his shoulder, and without breaking eye contact, puts out the cigarette into his wrist, breaking the even black band of ink there. His face doesn't flinch, but he tugs his mouth into an empty smile._ _

__"Tyler," Josh starts, beginning a chant. "Tyler, Tyler, Tyler, Tyler, Tyler-"_ _

__Tyler's eyes are a void, staring at nothing in the sink._ _

__Josh pulls him away and thrusts Tyler's wrist until the faucet, dousing it in water. There's anxiety creeping through his veins, choking his breath, pounding in his skull. He feels a mix of desperation and… anger. For the first time, he's angry at Tyler and can barely control his shaking hands._ _

__"Tyler, every other night, I come here and I pick up the pieces and put you together again," he says through clenched teeth. "Why are you destroying yourself? Why are you undoing everything?" His jaw tight, he stares at Tyler, eyes narrowing._ _

__"I love you, Tyler," he tacks on for the first time._ _

__"You're destroying me," he adds for good measure._ _

__Tyler just stares at his wrist, stares at the water and the forming blister. He doesn't speak for what feels like ages._ _

__"I'm dead already, Josh," he says slowly, carefully. "There's nothing to put together. I died years ago."_ _

__And Josh's stomach churns and he hunches over the sink and hurls. Tyler places a wet hand on his back and rubs._ _

__\--_ _

__When the fall comes to an end, Josh feels himself worn thin. The weight of being Tyler's lover sags on his shoulders, a heavy load._ _

__And does it explode?_ _

__It does, one night, when he Skypes with his mother for the first time in months. She doesn't comment on Josh's worn appearance or the joint he's poorly hiding under the desk. Her tone is soft, loving, attentive, the way his own tone has been with Tyler as he's watching him slowly turn his life to rubble. Something about switch of roles break Josh, and he sobs as his mother is telling a story about their dinner with the pastor._ _

__"I miss you," he bubbles out as her brow crinkles with concern. "I miss home."_ _

__She coos and if they weren't an ocean apart, he knows she would be stroking his hair. She soothes him with soft tones until he finally stops and wipes the snot from his nose away with a sleeve._ _

__"Why don't you come home, honey?" she suggests, again, as she had before in many of their conversations. He hasn't been home, not even for a visit, since he left for Europe and he always fought tooth and nail to keep it that way, to preserve his new identity and not muddle his past into his present. This time he doesn't fight though, just sucks in a shaky breath and nods._ _

__"Not for forever, but," he halts, wiping his nose._ _

__"A visit would be just fine, Joshie," his mother says, eyes tired, a gentle smile painting her face. "Come home for Christmas. I'll cook for you, baby you, and you can take a little break from being an adult. Catch up with your brothers and sisters. It'll be like old times."_ _

__Josh has to bite back more tears threatening to spill, because this is it, this is what he always wanted to avoid. He didn't want to become his father; didn't want to opt for a dry desk job and a quiet suburban life. He didn't, though, because he became his mother, the martyring caretaker, keeping everyone warm by setting himself on fire, instead._ _

__"Yeah," he croaks, "I'd like that."_ _

__After they hang up, Josh calls his boss despite the late hour. He can't help himself, he has to set his plan in motion, he has to flee because the smoke from his flames are choking him, before he turns back and douses himself with more gasoline because Tyler is too intoxicating. Just the idea of being away for a few weeks makes his breath hitch, his hands wring with worry that he'll return to a quiet apartment, Tyler's body in a pool of rust, bloated with rot. He explains his situation as a family emergency and takes three weeks off. After, he books a flight for the following weekend._ _

__He calls Tyler to tell him, but the boy doesn't pick up, as usual. Josh decides to ease his bones into bed and finally escape to the darkness of a dreamless sleep._ _

__A few days later, he gets a text inviting him over. The same curt command Tyler always sends: _Need you. Come over__ _

__Josh doesn't reply with his usually eager _Ok, be there soon, xx_. He can't go to the apartment again, he knows that Tyler's vines will wrap around him and tether him there for another night of physical ecstasy and mental anguish. _ _

__So, Josh texts back that they should meet by the central monument._ _

__Tyler replies, _Public sex?_ , pointed with a cheeky emoji. _ _

__Josh texts, _Haha, see you there_._ _

__\--_ _

__When he arrives, the monument feels oppressive and foreign. It doesn't inspire the same wonder it did when he first came to the city; if anything, it feels sinister now, reminding him of the dense buildings lining the streets and blocking the skyline, the fluorescent lighting and dead cattle-like eyes of everyone in the subway. He misses driving the family SUV down broad streets, taking his siblings to Taco Bell, coming home after rolling around in the grass with neighboring children to a warm meal. He misses the ease, the simplicity, the open skies of his youth. It took two years, but Josh wants back some familiarity, something to cling to as he feels himself crumble._ _

__He spots Tyler coming towards him, Tyler clad in a mustard-colored sweater and a black beanie pulled over his eyebrows. He's smiling, smoke and mist pooling from his lips, and he wordlessly presses a kiss to Josh's mouth._ _

__"So, where do you want to do this? It's kind of really fucking cold so I hope I can stay hard," he starts, jovial with his cheeks and nose red. He runs a hand under it, wiping snot into his sleeve. His nose is always running, and he always blames it on winter._ _

__Josh pulls away from Tyler's touch, creating distance before gets trapped in Tyler's gravitational field._ _

__"I really can't do this. Not tonight," he begins, and Tyler's face falls. "I'm leaving. Going home. A few weeks. I think we need a break. You're…" Josh can't find the words again and he closes his hands into a fist, testing for numbness._ _

__"I'm what? 'Destroying' you?" Tyler sneers around his cigarette. His smile his gone and his face looks cold, biting._ _

__Josh wants to scream, but he doesn't. His voice is barely audible. "You're a junkie. You're barely hanging on and I'm barely hanging on. Tyler, I love you, but I don't love the chaos. I don't think I even know you, and that's all I really wanted." He looks away, away from Tyler and the monument, at his feet. He's never been this open with Tyler about his feelings, because the latter never prompted, never asked._ _

__Tyler's lips are pressed into a thin line, his expression unreadable._ _

__"What are you still doing here?"_ _

__Josh shakes his head; he really doesn't know._ _

__"What am I still doing here?"_ _

__\--_ _

__"I met someone," he tells Ashley one night as they're perched on the bed in her room. The house is asleep, but they're catching up, Ashley drinking up all his stories from his time abroad. It's like old times, when they'd divulge in each other's secrets well into the morning, chatting until their words turned to sleep-riddled nonsense._ _

__His entire visit has been a modern replay of "old times". He bickers with his brother, he lets his mother coddle him, he drives them all to church. He sleeps soundly in his childhood bedroom under posters of Christian rock bands and his face starts to fill out with all the warm meals they share; color and life comes back to his cheeks. Nothing has changed, really, except that he doesn't feel himself drowning in his old worries, doesn't regress back to sweaty palms and peeling the skin off his lip when he's prompted to speak._ _

__His parents aren't happy with his decision to throw their dream away, but both his mother and his father hug him hard, tell him they're proud. That they're so happy he's home, so happy to see him alive and well._ _

__Josh doesn't remember why he never came back to visit, but this trip, this trip recharges everything he spent tending to Tyler's disease._ _

__Tyler texted him, still texts him, all throughout his three weeks away, but Josh doesn't read any of the messages. He can't bring himself to sully the first time he's been able to breathe in weeks._ _

__"Oooh," Ashley says, leaning forward with wide eyes. "Who is she? What's she like?"_ _

__"He," Josh corrects, and he wants to hold Ashley and kiss her forehead when her face doesn't change, when she doesn't wince or raise an eyebrow._ _

__"What's he like?"_ _

__"He's beautiful. He's an artist and he writes the most heart-breaking songs… he's so beautiful and…"_ _

__And Josh clutches the fabric over his heart. He spills out everything, the details of their dysfunction, everything he's kept inside and hidden away from his friends, until he can't make out anymore words through the shudders rattling his ribcage._ _

__"Oh Josh," And Ashley is there, an arm around his shoulders. "Josh, you're too good for this world."_ _

__She pets his hair until he falls silent, until he crawls under the covers for warmth and sleep. In the morning, there's a message on his phone from Ashley with a link to an organization. Al-Anon, he reads. There's a list of meeting in Columbus._ _

__He spends three Thursdays in a row in a church basement surrounded by survivors. He doesn't ever speak, doesn't give an account of his own tales, but listens intently to stories that make bile rise in his throat. He wants to reach out and hold the middle-aged women with their cuticles picked raw, wants to kiss the foreheads of girlfriends looking gaunt with worry._ _

__When Josh makes his transatlantic journey back to the city, his mind is at ease with fresh memories of eggnog, off-key Christmas carols, multicolored lights and the Dun clan clad in itchy woolen sweaters rattling around in his mind. His unease only starts to creep back after he's slept off the jet lag and unpacked his bags._ _

__He finally checks his messages._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A friend of mine who's read my original work said he really wanted to read what I'm working on now, so I sent him this and he said he really enjoyed it. My contribution to society, if I've ever made one, is introducing straight cisboys to gay TOP smut. 
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	7. Bells

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A drinking game: 
> 
> For a tipsy, fun evening in, take a shot every time Josh's hands swell from playing his cajon.  
> For a night you won't remember, take a shot every time Tyler smokes a cigarette.

_What's it like, back home?_

_Is Columbus holding up?_  
_Let me know if you're doing alright._

It's the first time Tyler has asked about Josh, and Josh figures his absence didn't go unnoticed. He doesn't know what to feel and frowns as he scrolls down.

_Talk to me_

_Ok_ , he texts.  
_I deserve this._

_Merry chirsitmas josh. Im alone. thinking aboutyou_

_Talk to me_

_Ok,_ he texts.  
_Fair enough_

_When you get back_  
_Call me_

There are a couple of messages that arrive after Josh's return.

_You're back_  
_Aren't you?_

In the late hours of the night: _Come over, need you_

 _Josh_ , he texts, when Josh reads them and takes a few days to unpack his bags and unpack his mind. Tyler knows they've been seen. _I get it_

\--

A week passes before Josh finally calls.

"I mean, you love me, Josh," Tyler says, tracing the ashtray between them with ashy end of his cigarette. "I know you do, because I know what it feels like when someone doesn't. Past lovers, they loved my cock, they loved it when I sang, they thought I was kind of edgy and bohemian. But when it comes down to it, everyone gets tired of my shithole of an apartment and my shithole of a brain eventually."

They're seated in a café, the only occupants of the tables outside. The waiters don't come out to serve them, making it clear that the street-side portion of the café is only open to summer residents.

"I'm killing myself slowly because I spooked myself when I tried to do it quickly. Called an ambulance when the blood started flowing. It was happening too quickly. Lately I was hoping I'd just fade away." He wipes his nose, not looking up.

"I can't tell you that you've given me a reason to live. I can't stand on the cusp of my demise and fucking say, well, I've got a fucking boyfriend now so I'm all better. It doesn't work that way. You can't kiss a slit wrist better." His hand is curled into a fist, squeezing the butt of his cigarette, and his gaze pierces Josh with misplaced spite. He breathes deeply, runs a hand through his hair, and his face softens.

Josh nods, understands, remains a rock with a gentle expression.

"Sorry. Jesus. Let me try again. Look, I like you and I don't know why you stick around. Stuck around?"

Josh gives a small smile. "I'm here right now, aren't I?"

"Yeah," Tyler says, returning the smile. He fidgets, twists at a hole in his sleeve. "You're here, and it drives me insane, Josh. I like you. You're soft, somehow. I don't know. This isn't you, like, curing me. I'll always have this insidious disease. I'll always itch for things that take me out of my head, I'll always be walking on a tightrope in my mind."

He mirrors Josh's smile, and huffs, not taking a drag of his cigarette. He just watches it burn, tapping off the ash when it's halfway to his hand.

"But, Jesus, you're a good person and I want to give it ago. I want to know why you look so earnest all the goddamned time. I want to see myself how you see me."  
"What can I do?" Josh offers. His voice is tentative, careful, like a child once burned.

"Look," he says, pulling a baggie out and placing it on the table. It's daylight, they're not alone, so Josh's eyes widen and he quickly slaps a hand over it.

"Look," Tyler starts again. "I don't deserve it, but I need your help. Help me fucking get rid of this."

\--

When Josh throws the little baggie into the toilet, Tyler's face breaks along with his heart, and he falls to he knees in front of the bowl. He taps the bag, swirls it around with his fingers, playing with the tiny funeral pyre one last time. Josh leans over and flushes suddenly, tearing a sob out of Tyler, who dribbles tears and snot and spit into the bowl. His hands plunge into the water to his elbows, fishing for the bag, but it's long gone and Tyler falls back onto tiles, hiding his face in soiled hands.

\--

Tyler doesn't send late-night texts anymore. Instead, he calls, and with a shaking voice, he doesn't command Josh. Instead, he pleads.

"Please?" his voice barely audible over the line. "Can you come over? Please."

And Josh, Josh obliges because he notices that he's tidying up rubble and the rubble stays tidied. There aren't anymore plates towering high. The wine glasses have disappeared. There isn't even a paper city. Josh is sad to see it go. It's all in folders now.

Now Josh doesn't have to bite his hand through oversensitivity from Tyler overstaying his welcome in his asshole. Most of the time, they don't even fuck, because Tyler's erection flags without cocaine. He always flushes furiously when Josh palms him as they're kissing and his body doesn't respond in full.

"It's not you," he'll say, stippling Josh with kisses.

Josh says, "I know," and "Shhh" and "Ah" when Tyler goes down on him anyway.

Josh is okay with this, knowing they'll sleep, limbs tangled, and he won't awaken to Tyler won't glare at him with sunken eyes, greedily pawing for his discarded jeans, for the tiny baggie of white powder that's always there.

Instead, they spend more hours sleeping, more hours groggy until Josh can pull himself from the mattress on the floor to make them shitty coffee.

Tyler's mind isn't as poised without whatever he used to bump in the morning. His thoughts are clouded and he feels lethargic and he's not tapping out piano melodies when Josh awakens. Most of the time, he's just staring at the keys, hands hovering. Josh kisses him from behind, and Tyler leans into his touch, all of him there, none of him drifting.

Still, through sobs and hands scattering papers from their folders, he'll cry out, "Josh, I can't do this," and "I can't write." And Josh says, "I know," and "Shh," as he holds Tyler's rattling ribcage. To make Tyler feel better, they practice the songs he knows, again and again.

"Holding Onto You?" Tyler will say, voice weak. Josh nods. For the 8th time, Tyler spits the same verses and sings until his voice falters, and Josh hits the same beats, until his hands swell.

One day, he'll find Tyler stooped over his sink, hands gripping it tightly again, this time without a cigarette in hand. "Leave me alone," Tyler whispers, and Josh nods, opening the double doors to the living room.

But Tyler starts again. "Don't," he says this time, louder. And Josh stays, places a hand between shoulder blades, fingers skating over the skin pulled taut over each vertebrae.

Tyler turns on the faucet, running it over the pink scar on his wrist.

He clutches the metal basin until his knuckles turn white, furls into himself, and cries out, "Don't leave me alone."

New Year's Eve isn't easy, with Tyler startling when the firecrackers start, with him dropping his phone out of shaking hands as he tries to cancel he order he made a few days prior for a speedball. He types the message again and again and erases it again and again and he startles with every crackle in the sky until his phone slips from his hands and clatters to the ground.

He has to beg Josh to cancel the order for him.

"Please, I don't deserve it-" Josh frowns, holds up a hand to stop him, and Tyler sucks in a shaky breath. "Just, help me fucking get rid of it."

Josh sends the text in under a minute, hands firm, no hesitation.

"I'm so tired," Tyler says, stooped on window sill, eyes rimmed red. He stares past the explosions in the sky.

"I missed the fireworks last year. Blacked out," he says, clutching slice of pizza, and his compulsive overeating will start to show when his ribs disappear. Josh's friends would say it's sickeningly sweet, chide him for his sentimentality, but he likes it, likes that there's more of Tyler around, not just a skeletal scaffold draped in skin.

"Missed a lot of things," he says, kissing Josh with a greasy mouth. Josh holds his face and watches the fireworks mirrored in Tyler's glassy eyes.

When they perform, Tyler weeps. He gestures, dragging the microphone down his arm, taking two fingers and turning them into his mouth, pulling the trigger. He shakes his head to scatter tears, an attempt to save his breaking voice. On these nights, Josh hits his cajon the hardest and their audience screams, some of them even echoing Tyler's words. They've gained a following of lost souls and Tyler always leans out to touch their reaching hands.

It's after a show like this that Tyler kisses him hard, yanks his hair, rekindled with the lust he hasn't been able to embody for weeks. It's after a show like this that he yanks Josh into the bathroom stall of the venue by his hair and pushes him down, down, down, thrusts into Josh's face until he gags, and paints him with ropes of cum.

Still, it's not all paradise with Tyler rolling his cigarettes large and fat before they go to bed, trying to find something comforting in his placebo joints.

A lack of drugs doesn't undo years of Tyler's miscommunication. If anything, it sets him back a few years, turning him into a whining babe, cradled in Josh's arms with wordless weeping more nights than not. They don't share tragic histories as they're holding each other and drifting to sleep. It's still mostly silent, it's still mostly Josh reading minds, bringing Tyler what he needs when he needs it.

Josh is okay with this.

And he still feels ragged, his eyes still fall shut when he's leaning on the counter during a slow day on the job, but now he feels less like it's because he's engaged in the Sisyphean task of keeping Tyler afloat. He still does more than he should, he knows he does, but he feels himself reaping rewards when Tyler takes his hand, when Tyler plants a kiss on his mouth after their set and doesn't stray to talk to pretty girls.

He reaps the rewards in the form of laughter bouncing around Tyler's bedroom like bells, after Mark takes a few photos of them for a poster, back to back, faces hidden behind balaclavas.

Josh plays with his phone idly with a somber resting face, completing the pre-sleep ritual of checking his social media accounts. Tyler curls an arm around him from behind. He leans towards Josh's ear, and Josh leans away, just a little, from the tickle of breath on his neck.

"Josh," Tyler says, poking him in the ribs with one finger.  
"Hm?" Josh says, not looking up.

"Josh, don't be mad," and Josh feels Tyler's face break into a smile against his bare shoulder. "You look good in the photos."

Josh snorts, casts an incredulous look over his shoulder, and Tyler's body shakes with laughter. He curls his toes and clutches his stomach, laughter chiming like bells.

And Tyler's inspiration eventually comes back, and he starts writing songs that are less disjointed than "Ode to Sleep", songs with more focus, but the mood in his lyrics doesn't change.

He always finds allusions to pain, always crafts sinister metaphors about toeing the line with self-obliteration. Josh doesn't know where these thoughts originate, even when Tyler's face now crinkles so easily with laughter, when spring comes and his skin is bronzey and warm, no longer clammy and waxy, when his sleeves are no longer crunchy with milky snot.

Josh knows he isn't a cure. He's okay with this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am done. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who read this and left positive feedback. Some of your comments really touched me and I'm glad my little tale of doom and destruction resonated so well with a couple of people. 
> 
> I had to hold myself back from making this too sappy because I am, indeed, a sucker. But I hope the ending is satisfying. 
> 
> I'm pretty sure I stole "laughter chiming like bells" from something. Sorry!!!
> 
> <3


End file.
